


Hallelujah - A Love Story

by eldritcher



Series: The Journal of Fingolfin [21]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dragonflies, M/M, Rated Adult. There are two men in love, tongues and kisses.Chapter two has gore.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 02:23:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4002268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Salgant and Ecthelion are appointed tutors to a rather remarkable child, in which Glorfindel has the unlikeliest conquest, in which Maedhros takes time out to go catch dragonflies, much to Orome's dismay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Read in order :)[ The Sunset AU Index ](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/TheSongOfSunset/profile) **

Pairing: Ecthelion/Salgant

 

Warning: Rated Adult. There are two men in love, dragonflies, tongues and kisses.Chapter two has gore.  
~20,000 words.

  


* * *

Names:  
Ektelë - Ecthelion - water source(fountain).  
Salmë - Salgant - lyre, harp, musical instrument.

Story structure: 3 parts. One for each act of Messiah. For insights into Handel's Messiah, [the Wikipedia compilation](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Messiah_\(Handel\)) is a decent starting point.

 

~~~

 

**Hallelujah - A Love Story**

  


**Act I**

 

 

“Wastrel!”

Spittle lent physical manifestation to the pronouncement. The boy remained quiet, as was his wont when in this situation. The teacher cursed yet again and strode away leaving behind the boy to lick his wounds.  
  
I sighed and left my hiding place in the alcove. Approaching the boy, I took in the full extent of the fruits yielded by this latest duel between master and student. Before I could voice my opinion, the boy spoke.

“You must cease, please. If he knows that you are watching our lessons, you will suffer.”

“I cannot do that,” said I frankly. “He has exceeded the acceptable in his treatment of you.”

“It is necessary,” the boy remarked, dutifully quoting what his teacher had taught him by fist and fury.

I did not reply, for I had no reply. It was necessary, if one chose to believe in the words of a long-dead woman they now called a prophetess. Had she been one? I did not know, but the boy’s teacher believed in her foresight and now it had come to this.

“Take my hand,” I said abruptly, veering away from the past.

The boy obeyed. He had grown taller and his movements were jarred by the gangly limbs of adolescence. He would grow taller yet, I could tell. Would it mar his carriage? No, his teacher would see to it that he attained grace in motion and posture.

“My gratitude,” he thanked me for my assistance.

His voice had abandoned the soft spoken timbre of his childhood, now settling into a low, soothing cadence that would aid his cause when he began wooing. The future would see many a heart pining for the man he would become. I smiled.

“You seem preoccupied,” he remarked.

And I noticed his eyes. The past came rushing back.

He had her eyes: the eyes of the woman who had chained him to this fate. Her words taken to heart by a man had ensured that this boy would know neither the joys of childhood nor the carefree days of adolescence because of these lessons. What of his future? What would it hold?

“It is not as harrowing as it seems,” he tried to assure me with a wan smile. “He was simply in a foul temper today. Seeing that he was upset and distracted, I did not want to harm him and so I held back opting for defence over attack. That did not sit well with him.”

“You should not hold back.” I traced the bleeding gash on his cheek. Would it scar? Perhaps not. The boy had become a dab hand at healing himself ever since he had begun duelling. “You, of all people, know that he will not do you the same courtesy.”

Dark mirth flared in those eyes as he murmured, “Indeed. My failure to retaliate with the same measure implies that my mind is yet to conquer my heart, which, as we both know, is the core of my lessons with him. Little wonder that he called me a wastrel.”

I bit my cheek. Did I believe in a dead woman’s words? Was the teacher was right in upholding his word to her? Could I stand a silent witness as the man tore out shreds of this boy’s conscience replacing it with logic and ruthlessness?

“You should,” the boy told me quietly. “It is too late to do anything else.”

And he left.

~~~

 

I entered the chambers I shared with the boy’s teacher.

“Ektelë,” I said his name.

“You will, no doubt, tell me that I should go easier on him,” the man drawled.

At times like these, when I saw him standing by the window, frowning as he watched the boy’s limping form receding into the distance, a goblet of the finest wine pressed to his lips, I would wonder if I had made a mistake all those years ago.

Then he turned and my doubts flew away with the wind, as they always did when his smouldering eyes met mine.

“Well?” he prompted.

“I need not tell you that you should go easier on the boy,” I said quietly. “You know it yourself. You choose to ignore that. So why would I waste my breath trying to dissuade you from this course?”

“Did the boy whine to you?” he demanded, setting down the goblet and crossing the chamber to join me.

His eyes held more than triumph now. I knew well what the other emotion was. Words failed me as they always did when confronted with his desire.

“Did he?” he asked again.

“No,” I stuttered. “You know that he never...Ah, please!” The sentence I had so painstakingly crafted dissolved into cacophony as he lifted the wrist of my right hand and began licking his way to the crook of my elbow.

After the storm had passed, leaving us both limp and wrung out, he grunted and took my right hand again. Squeezing it, he said, “Allow me to profess my devotion yet again.”

Devotion. He called it devotion and I called it regard. It was the same thing. Cloying terms that I looked upon with sour jealousy which were exchanged between men and women were not for men as him and I. It was a sin, what we had, for so Oromë had deemed it when he had laid down the laws of the land before leading us here.

Ektelë and I woke in each other’s arms by the shores of the Cuiviénen. It was our first memory and it remained my most cherished one. It was perfection. He belonged in my arms. I belonged in his. It was so perfect, so natural, so right, and we had coupled under the stars of awakening. It was said that Círdan woke to life with the waters of the lake caressing his feet. This, the Wise said, was why he was bound to water. Well, I woke to life with Ektelë in my arms. The Wise were wise and so I was bound to him.

We named each other when Finwe taught us speech. Ektelë he was, because he reminded me of the cascade of water when we had thrown stones into the Cuiviénen. And I became Salmë, after he declared that I played his body better than anyone played music. We had been comrades, brothers and lovers before we had even heard of Gods and the land across the sea. Now we had to hide what we had, what we were, behind walls and vines.

“Hush,” Ektelë whispered, placing his right ear on my chest. “I can feel you thinking. Your heart beats so when your thoughts are far from your body.”

“Bring me back to my body then.”

“So I shall, Salmë, so I shall.”

With a simple press of his lips to mine, he made good on his word.

“You are-” I shook my head and settled for interlinking our fingers in lieu of failed eloquence.

“I hate what I am doing to him,” he whispered. Regret marred his words. I tightened my hold on his fingers and waited. His voice hitched as he continued, “But it has to be done, Salmë. If what she said was true, the boy will need this.”

“He is a passionate young man, Ektelë. Whatever Míriel foresaw, he is too young to be chained down to it.”

“His eyes are old,” Ektelë said softly.

I could not deny that. The boy had a dead woman’s eyes.

 

~~~

 

A few days later, Ektelë and I were in the market. As we made our way through the crowded streets, we heard the boy’s voice.

In silent accord, we walked towards the voice. It led us to the statue of the woman whose words had charted the boy’s course. He was leaning against the plinth, reading aloud from a scroll to a young child clinging to him.

“We thank with brief thanksgiving, whatever Gods may be, that no life lives forever; that dead rise up never; that even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea.”

Ektelë flinched and met my gaze. In the shadow of the statue, the boy continued teaching his brother to read, unaware of the curious throng surrounding them. Seeing the dark truth in Ektelë’s eyes, I swallowed. This boy’s life, oh, this boy’s life, would be cruel. He could not afford to be a boy with boyish pursuits. He had to be a man and more if he was to survive.

“Whose words were that, Prince?” asked Laurefindë, who was one of those surrounding the boy. “I cannot recollect reading them.”

“The words are mine.”

Indeed. For who else would dare question the absolute truth of the Gods, couching disrespect in eloquence as “whatever Gods may be...” Despite all that Ektelë had done to beat devotion into the boy, the teacher had failed.

“We live forever, Prince,” Laurefindë pointed out.

“Do we?” the boy asked.

Uneasy whispers arose.

“Yes,” Laurefindë replied. “It is a truth, Prince. All of us know it. It is a promise that the Gods gave us when we followed Oromë.”

“Eternity in return for compliance,” the boy murmured as a fierce gust of Manwë’s wind lifted the skirts of our robes. Ektelë frowned. The boy continued nonchalantly, “Hold to your truths, Laurefindë, and I shall hold to mine.”

“And what are your truths, Prince?” Curunír, one of the Wise, came forward now. His cold gaze assessed the boy and a long finger came to trace the fading scar on a pale cheek that had resulted from the gash that Ektelë had given the boy in their last duel.

“Don’t touch my brother!” came the angry command from the child who had been clinging to the boy’s tunic with unmatched possessiveness.

“Hush, Macalaurë.” The boy’s voice was now soothing and calm. There was gentleness in his touch as he ruffled his brother’s curly mop of hair. But when he turned his gaze back on Curunír, there was only contemplation.  
  
Before the boy could say a word, Ektelë entered the scene, and murmuring apologies, dragged the boy out of the gathering.

“It is a very foolish thing that you did now!” Ektelë began his tirade.

“Don’t shout at my brother!”

“Ah!” Ektelë bent to glare at the little defender. “Well, I shall deal with your impertinence when you come to be tutored. And it shall be soon!”

“No,” the boy said calmly.

“I beg your pardon?” Ektelë asked, his glare shifting to the elder of the brothers.

“Macalaurë shall not be taught by you, milord. Nor shall anyone else I care for.” The boy took a deep breath as if to ground himself. “You teach me only because Finwe believes you would not betray my grandmother’s trust in you. It will not be repeated.”

“Ungrateful boy!” Ektelë began before I could begin to interrupt. I frowned at the boy, silently warning him not to worsen matters which would bide ill for him during their next lesson.

“My brother has two names!” The little defender rose to the challenge yet again. “I call him Russandol. You are not allowed to call him that. But you may call him Maitimo.”

A wry grin graced Maitimo’s lips as Ektelë spluttered.

“The sheer cheek!” Ektelë began.

Macalaurë glared and Ektelë threw his hands up in the air before storming away muttering under his breath about hellions that existed merely to drive him insane.

“Well?” Maitimo asked me as he lifted his companion into his arms. “What do you think of my brave protector?”

“Am I doing that, Russandol?” came the anxious query.

“Yes, young Macalaurë,” I assured the child. Such solemnity was held in the depths of those black eyes. His father’s eyes. Macalaurë was the very picture of Fëanáro at that age. There was nothing of Nerdanel in him. And, the Gods be praised, there was nothing of the Broideress. A sigh of relief escaped me. His brows drew together in perplexity. Chuckling, I told him gently, “You do admirably well in protecting your brother.”

“I am young now. I cannot do anything to them.” With a wave of his hand, he encompassed the whole world. “When I grow older, I shall run them through with my father’s sword if they touch Russandol!”

Ah, so openly loyal and fierce as Fëanáro himself.

“Bloodthirsty imp, aren’t you?” Maitimo laughed. “Come now, Kano, we must go home. Nolofinwë will wonder what became of us. Salmë,” he nodded to me, “I will see you after my next lesson with Ektelë.”

After they had left, Laurefindë joined me.

“No,” I said firmly before he could begin. “Ektelë has nothing to do with the Prince’s convictions.”

“I know,” Laurefindë said. “The Prince is not easily swayed by another’s opinion, Salmë. This I have heard from Nolofinwë himself.”

I nodded. Laurefindë fiddled with his tunic buttons before saying, “His convictions are worrying, Salmë.”

“He is young and hot-blooded. He will change, Laurefindë.” It was assurance that he needed to hear and I owed him that even if I did not believe in my own words.

Laurefindë seemed to be set at ease by my assurance. He continued in a lighter vein, “That brother of his is more loyal than a hound! It relieves me though. I had heard rumours that the child was mute and retarded. Why, Nolofinwë was lamenting that Macalaurë has never spoken a word to him.”

I laughed. I could well imagine that. “I believe Macalaurë is choosy, Laurefindë. He takes after his father, as you may have noticed. As he proved irrefutably today, he is neither a mute nor is he retarded. A valorous defence, would you not agree?”

My friend nodded and his mien turned serious as he remarked, “They are very close, Salmë.”

“As brothers should be,” I replied.

“Indeed.”

“How goes it with your chase?” I changed the subject, wishing to cease thinking of the boy, of Ektelë, and of the Broideress.

Laurefindë’s voice had turned husky when he answered. “It goes ill,” he paused. “Salmë! I wish I had woken in his arms as had happened to Ektelë and you. Then I would not have to chase him over glen and plain to offer my heart. He resists, Salmë! And he resists with a will of the metal he works!”

“He will see reason,” I soothed him. While it was entertaining to see my dear friend chasing his cold-hearted inamorato with professions of love and belonging, it chafed me to see how callously he was being turned down at every juncture.

“Mairon is the most reasonable man I know,” Laurefindë muttered. “If he has not seen reason in this so far, perhaps there is no reason at all!”

“Peace!” I admonished. “Perhaps you should be less forward. He might be insecure.”

“Mairon? Insecure?” Laurefindë’s eyes widened in incredulity as if I had suggested Fëanáro was impotent. “Salmë, he is the most self-assured bastard to grace this land, and that is saying something since I have taken even your boy into account!”

“My boy,” I began testily, “has a name.”

Was I echoing young Macalaurë? Finwë would approve. The King had always been saddened by my disinclination to use the boy’s given name. Little did he know that my guilty mind believed that the more distanced I was from the boy, the less burdened my conscience would be after watching Ektelë teach the child.

From that day, I called the boy Maitimo.

Macalaurë’s defence had stirred my guilt deeper. I could not do anything about what Ektelë taught his charge. But I could, and would, stop the cruelty of treating the boy as if he were just another student. Ektelë would be surprised, but he would not gainsay me. Our arguments began and ended on the matter of tutoring Míriel’s grandchild. We had both learnt to keep our opinions to ourselves in order to ensure domestic peace. It was a tentative accord to disagree. It would break apart one day, and I would accuse him. Not now. I wanted it to be always the same between us as it was when he woke in my arms by the Cuiviénen. It would change though. I could feel changing arcing through the soil, creeping into my blood and into the very marrow of my bones. When change came, Ektelë and I would be driven apart by what he was doing to the boy. Until then, I wanted everything to last.

 _Please_ , I begged silently of the Gods, _may it last_.

~~~

“I did it!” Laurefindë crowed triumphantly as he joined me on the terrace overlooking our courtyard. Ektelë and Maitimo were duelling below and I was keeping an eye on them even as I wrote a letter of acceptance to Finwë’s invitation for his grandson’s coming of age ceremony.

I halted my writing and looked up at Laurefindë. My quill slipped away from my fingers as I stared awestruck at him. Like a young God stood he radiant and golden, his green eyes sparkling with unadulterated happiness. Every inch of him from the toes on his feet to the tips of his hair shouted victory aloud to the skies.

“Mairon,” I whispered.

“Yes!” He embraced me. “Oh, Salmë! He loves me!”

His happiness was contagious. I laughed as I made him regale me with the tale of how he had finally thawed the Maia’s legendary self-restraint. So different they were in mien and bearing, but so perfectly matched.

“Did he profess devotion?” I enquired.

“Hah!” Laurefindë rolled his eyes. “He is still Mairon, Salmë! Aulë’s furnace would freeze before he did any such thing. But I know him well.”

There was a shout from the courtyard and we turned to see Ektelë scolding Maitimo yet again.

“If Fëanáro or Nolofinwë hears of this, there will be hell to pay,” Laurefindë said bleakly. “Ektelë must tread carefully. The child is too young to be taught the ways of the sword.”

“I know.” I sighed. “I have given up reasoning with him on this subject.”

Laurefindë leant over the railing and exclaimed, “Salmë, we should stop them now!”

I rose in shock as I watched the duel. Ektelë was losing, and losing badly. Maitimo’s movements were unhurried and mocking as he beat down Ektelë’s defences. Grey eyes held Ektelë’s surprised ones and Ektelë screamed as he went down. He made one last parry, but Maitimo’s left hand came to grip Ektelë’s sword arm and I saw a deft twist before it ended.

“Varda!” Laurefindë shouted as he made for the courtyard. I followed him, blind panic setting in as Ektelë’s screams rent the air.

If not for Laurefindë, I know not what would have happened. He knelt beside Ektelë even as I froze in horror upon seeing the gore wrought by this defeat.

“...bloody boy took my eye...”Ektelë was mumbling before he lost consciousness in Laurefindë’s arms even as Laurefindë pulled out the blade.

Bile rose in my throat as I realised what that blade had done. A sob wrenched me from my petrified horror and I turned to see Maitimo running away. Between us, Laurefindë and I carried Ektelë into the house and then Laurefindë sent out a messenger to a healer. The healer hurried over, and took charge, cleaning the wound with detached gentleness. He was horrified. His trembling fingers testified to that.

“Don’t cry,” Laurefindë whispered as we watched the healer dress the wound. I shook my head, trying to halt the tears.

When Ektelë came to, all he said was, “I have done what I had to do. His mind has finally conquered his heart.”

~~~

“Ektelë.” I sighed as I pulled him closer, splaying my fingers over his chest.

“I am sorry,” he whispered as he dragged my fingers to his lips.

“We knew it would happen.” I cleared my throat and summoned the courage to go on. “Perhaps you have saved him from a worse fate.”

We were seated in the arbour, his back to my chest, as we watched the Intermingling of Lights. During the days of his convalescence, we had not spoken much. I had tried my best to refrain from fussing as I tended to him. By silent accord, we had not spoken of what had happened even if the memory haunted us both with the sightless right eye it had left behind. The loss had left Ektelë weak as a newborn fawn and often he lost his bearings when he tried to negotiate the stairs. I would silently help him up then and say no more about it.

“Lords!”

It was Indis the Vanya. Ektelë did not like her for she reminded him of Míriel, our old friend. Míriel had been well loved by those who knew her. Little wonder that Indis was unable to even gain the least measure of regard from her husband. His heart was, and would remain, Míriel’s fortress.

“Lady Indis,” I greeted her, unwilling to displace Ektelë by rising. He seemed comfortable. And he needed his comfort.

The woman’s blue eyes widened in shock as they came to rest upon Ektelë’s visage. Then they hardened and she took a deep breath to ground herself before she began to speak.

“What have you done to Maitimo?”

“Lady, at this juncture, should you not ask what he has done to me?” Ektelë demanded bitterly. As much as he tried to convince us that an incident as this was, perhaps, the inevitable fallout of these lessons, a part of him accused his student.

“You should not destroy the living with the words of the dead,” Indis murmured, and when Ektelë stiffened, I knew that I was not the only one to hear the undercurrent of pleading in her voice.

“You are unworthy of kissing the soil she walked upon,” Ektelë said calmly.

“That may be so,” she said, not flinching in the least on hearing his cruel words. Perhaps she was used to this comparison between the dead and the living. “But the child does not deserve this, milord. You cannot mould him into a weapon. Míriel-” she paused and bit her lips before continuing, “Míriel would not want it so.”

“It is over,” Ektelë said.

Indis smiled a bitter smile. “No, milord, it has barely begun.”

As she left, I buried my face in Ektelë’s hair and wished most fervently that she might be wrong. When Ektelë’s fingers clutched my thigh in silent anguish, I knew that she would not be proved wrong.

“I am sorry,” he whispered again, and he would whisper those words again and again in the days that followed, tearing my heart into raw shreds with the earnest plea. And hearing that plea, what would I have not given to travel to the depths of hell to grab that forgiveness he yearned for? But I could not do that for him, for it was not me that he had wronged.

~~~

“Ektelë!”

Fëanáro. I frowned upon recognising that voice. The smith was not one for fraternising. Then I remembered the coming of age ceremony. He must have come to invite his son’s tutor personally. It was tradition and I could well see Finwë and Nolofinwë insisting upon tradition.

“Fëanáro,” I greeted him. “Do come in. Ektelë is resting on the east facing terrace.”

“I did hear Nolofinwë saying something about Ektelë being wounded in a duel,” Fëanáro said. “He was not harmed badly, I hope? Ah, Salmë, is this carved by Círdan?” He had forgotten all about Ektelë’s wounds and was now bending over to inspect a wood carving that was, indeed, a work by Círdan. “I had wanted to study his pieces, you know,” Fëanáro continued, his voice lit with the true reverence of a craftsman. “My father has several. They were friends. Beautiful attention to details, Salmë. Look at this here, how accurately has he depicted the creases of the sails! Attention to detail. If only I had more time. But the research I do now occupies my time. Materials and their properties. Melting and crystals. Why, only yesterday, there was this-”

“Fëanáro,” Ektelë entered the chamber and looked upon our savant guest with a mix of curiosity, concern and wry amusement.

“Ah, yes!” Fëanáro turned his gaze on Ektelë. His intellectual enthusiasm morphed into shock. “Eru! Ektelë, what happened to you?”

Ektelë exchanged an uncomfortable glance with me. It was easier when constructing a blithe lie to be spread among acquaintances who were equally prone to lying. But Fëanáro was different. He was an artist, in the truest sense of that word. He would not lie and he could not be lied to.

“My son,” Fëanáro whispered as he stepped closer to Ektelë. His callused fingers rose to feel the ugly gash that had cost Ektelë an eye. “Damn you, Ektelë! I trusted you! My father trusted you! Damn it all, my dead mother trusted you and my son trusted you. Is this how you repay us?”

“Fëanáro,” I tried to intervene.

He pinned me down with a dark glare before addressing Ektelë again, “I was taught that my mother was a noble woman who would wish ill not even upon those who wronged her. Why do you destroy my son in her name?”

Ektelë cleared his throat as he tried to compose his reply. I could see how torn he was between regret and determination.

Fëanáro shook his head and said in a quiet, menacing tone, “I believe that we make our fate, Ektelë. Fate does not make us. My son has blood on his hands because you drove him to that. He will not be the same again, will he? Was that your aim, to make a killer of him?” His eyes narrowed. “Not while I live, Ektelë, not while I live.”

He stormed out and Ektelë said softly, “Would that he were right! Alas! Míriel’s son has not her sight!”

~~~

Tirion arrayed herself in bridal splendour as we celebrated our Prince’s coming of age. Courtier and common man set aside their differences during that long week of rejoicing. The coming of age of any of the sons of Finwë had not been marked by such revelry. Why, I wondered? In any case, the citizens decided to spare no pain to ensure that this celebration would make amends for the pretermitted occasions.

The grand culmination of the festivities was a ball held in the palace of Finwë. Ektelë and I had come with Laurefindë to attend. Laurefindë was in fine spirits despite Mairon’s absence.

“He would not be at ease,” Laurefindë said. “Revelries as this are not his forte.”

“I cannot blame him. One cannot have a decent conversation in this melee of drunkards!” Ektelë grumbled.

“I am not drunk,” I reminded Ektelë.

“You tend to have indecent conversations with me,” he jibed. I rolled my eyes, but I was pleased by his seeming nonchalance. I knew that he was falling apart inside, for this would be the first time we would see Maitimo after that incident.

“Ah! That is a fine woman,” Laurefindë murmured. “Vanyarin, but worth her weight in gold. She would make him a fine match, methinks.”

I turned to watch the dance. Maitimo had opened the ball with a beautiful woman. Her, I instantly recognised.

“Elenwë,” I told Laurefindë. “She is from a noble family that has Ingwë’s favour.”

“Maitimo can make a better match,” Ektelë said. “I heard rumours that Ingwë was interested in an alliance.”

“Ingwë does not have a daughter,” Laurefindë pointed out.

“He has a granddaughter,” Ektelë said.

Laurefindë said incredulously, “I refuse to believe that Finwë would approve, Ektelë. Ingwë’s son is a fop!”

I bit my lips to stifle my laughter at that.

“Your tastes run towards the austere and the brooding, Laurefindë,” Ektelë snorted. “That does not give you the right to call a well-dressed man a fop!”

“Well, he is,” Laurefindë muttered. “Why don’t you take a look at your protégé instead of insulting my taste in men?”

Indeed, for the dancers made a well-matched pair that had caught the eye of everyone in the hall. The boy, no, the Prince, had finally grown into refined economy of movement from that awkward gangly youth he had been. Taller than his father he was, yet he seemed to have a delicate, sensitive grace that Fëanáro lacked. It was evident in every fluid glide of his limbs and in every expression that crossed his handsome face. Complementing his elegance was that woman in his arms. She was made of zest and life. Her laughter balanced his calm and her golden complexion softened his pallor. When the song lulled, she rose to her toes to kiss his cheek and I smiled as he blushed.

“I would not mind having him in my bed if I was not quite happy with that idiot I love,” Laurefindë remarked.

“Keep your filthy hands to your pet Maia,” Ektelë growled. “The boy is too important to the Crown. If you must, go chase one of the lesser Princes. I hear that Nolofinwë’s son is a true profligate.”

“You are protective of a boy you taught to kill,” Laurefindë said quietly. I knew well the underlying menace in his voice. Laurefindë did not approve of manipulations. And he loathed manipulating children which was what Ektelë had done.

“I hate myself enough,” Ektelë hissed. “I hate myself enough every day without being reminded of it by you. I cannot bear the thought of how much he will hate me when he comes to understand what I have done, Laurefindë. And when that day comes, Salmë will have nothing to do with me for he loves the boy as a son. My sacrifice-”

“Sacrifice?” Laurefindë scoffed. “Have you spared a thought to how deeply he shall hate himself when he realises what you have made of him?”

With that, he turned and swept into the crowds, his face set in anger. Laurefindë was like that. He could never keep his emotions under rein.

“Salmë,” Ektelë began.

“No,” I said quietly. “We must wish Maitimo and then we shall leave.”

Ektelë’s hands were clenched into fists as we made our way to the Prince.

“Salmë!” Maitimo’s lips curved in a tentative smile as he saw me. Then he swallowed and his eyes widened in horror as he saw Ektelë. Guilt ravaged the boy’s face as he stared, petrified, at Ektelë’s sightless eye.

“Maitimo, you are yet to introduce us,” said Elenwë, stepping to his side, rightly identifying the hush that had fallen upon the gathering. Bless her.

“Yes,” he stammered, his eyes wildly flicking over to where his father and uncle stood conversing with other courtiers. “I apologise.” With effort, he gathered his shredded composure and said quietly, “Milady, Salmë and Ektelë were my tutors in lore, statesmanship and duelling. Milords, may I present to you Elenwë of the court of Ingwë. She is my dear friend and a handmaiden to the Princess.”

“Not _the_ Princess, Maitimo,” Elenwë teased him. “She is _your_ Princess!”

“Ah, yes, though I cannot call her that now. We are not betrothed yet.” He blushed even as he tried to glare at her for her presumption.

“Now that you are of age, you can ask for her hand before your elders get around to discussing the alliance,” Elenwë said unrelentingly, and I could well understand her motivation in seeing him falter so. He was usually the epitome of composure that it was a charming sight to see him stutter and blush. I was grateful to her, deeply so, for she had quietly dispelled the tension that had fallen between us.

“Have you seen her?” I asked him.

“No,” he admitted. “But Nolofinwë said I will like her.”

“I say that you will love her,” Elenwë interrupted glibly. He shot her a glare. It did my heart good to see the camaraderie between them. He had few friends.

“Is she not older than you?” Ektelë asked, curiosity winning over his fear.

Maitimo eyed him worriedly, but Elenwë squeezed his hand and he cleared his throat nervously before saying, “She is. She is older than my mother.”

“Don’t let her walk all over you then,” I said half-seriously.

“Well, seeing that Ektelë does walk all over you though you are of the same age, I suppose it should not be a concern in my alliance with her.”

Ah, yes, that was Maitimo at his most petulant. I smiled and shook my head though I did not naysay him. He was right. I did let Ektelë have his whim and wish more than was advisable.

“That is only because he is all over me when we are alone,” Ektelë said innocently. I cringed, Elenwë laughed and Maitimo paled considerably.

“What tale of horror are you regaling them with, Ektelë?” Finwë joined us and looked on dubiously as Elenwë winked at me.

“Oh, milord, he was giving us very relevant details pertaining to their private lives,” she told him straight-faced.

“I could have lived without that picture in my head,” Maitimo muttered. “It is as bad as knowing what your parents do when they are alone.”

“Or your grandparent, perhaps? You did walk upon me while I was otherwise engaged one day,” Finwë chortled.

“I wish dearly that I had not!” Maitimo spluttered indignantly. “I had to get drunk to forget what I had seen!”

“Oh! That is how you ended up in Arafinwë’s courtyard and frightened the poor man with your love ballad,” Elenwë nodded wisely. “You were fortunate that he did not call you out to a duel.”

At the word duel, Ektelë stiffened and Maitimo flinched. Elenwë exclaimed that she could not bear sitting out the next dance and dragged Finwë with her before he could get in a word edgewise.

I quickly intervened between my lover and the Prince, asking, “Is knowing what we do as intolerable as knowing what your parents do?”

“Yes, quite,” Maitimo said softly. “You were my tutors, Salmë. I do regard you with a measure of filial affection.”

“You should not,” Ektelë whispered, stricken to the bone. “Please, my boy, you should not.”

The Prince smiled sadly before taking his leave of us. Ektelë’s quiet sob went unheard as the song picked up pace and we watched as the Prince retrieved Elenwë from his grandfather’s arms before leading her to the dance floor.

~~~

“Ektelë! Ektelë!”

I groaned and pulled the duvet over my head even as Ektelë shifted his head from my chest to my stomach. A wry smile escaped me as his breath tickled my navel. He would sneer if he heard the word _snuggling_ was mentioned in the same sentence as his own name, but he did it all the same.

“Salmë! You must wake up!”

Damn Laurefindë! What did that twit want with us so early in the day? I pushed the duvet off and my eyes widened as I came face to face with Laurefindë.

“What?” I barked.

“You must come!” He was _bouncing_. “You simply must!”

Laurefindë pulled us out of the bed, and chivvied us to the wardrobe, all the while going on about how we simply should follow him immediately.

“If I did not like you as much as I do, Laurefindë,” grumbled Ektelë as he did the buttons on his tunic, “I would have rid the world of your obnoxious cheerfulness.”

“Ah, I am sure that Mairon appreciates you letting me live,” Laurefindë said unfazed by the threat.

Kicking and screaming, to no avail, we grumpily let Laurefindë pull us to the stables.

After a long, exasperating ride which involved Laurefindë and Ektelë snapping at each other, we ended up in Valmar.

“We go on,” Laurefindë said nervously. He had become increasingly agitated as we neared Valmar. I wondered what the purpose of the trip was, not for the first time. Ektelë simply snarled and followed Laurefindë to the foot of the mountain where resided Manwë.

There was a crowd. Not the usual flock of devotees who came to offer harvest or livestock.

“What-” I began.

“Ah, Laurefindë!” came a cool greeting as Mairon stepped forward to join us. “Come with me. I can get us nearer to the dias.”

“What is happening?” Ektelë asked Mairon as we followed them.

“He did not tell you then,” Mairon deduced. “Well, see for yourselves then.”

“Mairon!” Eönwë, herald of Manwë, joined us. “What do you think?”

“He will win,” Mairon said confidently.

“Not in a debate with Lord Oromë,” Eönwë hissed.

“If I am proved right, you will let me have your townhouse in Tirion,” Mairon dared.

Eönwë’s eyes narrowed before he nodded curtly saying, “If I win, you will furnish said townhouse with the finest of your craft.”

“What are you talking about?” I intervened, not at all pleased by this vague reference to a debate.

“Hush, now, the Valar have arrived,” Eönwë murmured.

“Hail the Gods!” spoke the crowd as one.

Manwë stood on the dais with the other Valar flanking him. He made a gesture of blessing and said, “We are here to hear your opinions on a law that was set down by Oromë before he led you to this land. The law pertains to unnatural intimacy between man and man, and between woman and woman.”

“It is as it should be, Lord Manwë,” Oromë said as he stepped forward. “Eru’s song spawned male and female as two parts of the same entity.”

“That is true,” Nienna, ever compassionate, spoke. “Yet I feel that eternal isolation in my lands should not await those who disobey. The hand of mercy can achieve more than the hand of ruthlessness.”

“Ruthlessness is the only solution to unnaturalness,” Oromë said firmly.

“Sending them to my realm is snuffing out the life from their hearts, Oromë,” Nienna held her ground. “Send them to Irmo. His gardens can heal their unnaturalness and they will return to their families.”

“It is a chosen unnaturalness, Nienna,” Irmo said quietly. “My gardens heal only those who are hurt by circumstances not of their own making. Those who break this law know that they dare eternal penalty if discovered, and it is only just that they receive it.”

“Tell me, Lord Oromë,” said a young, clear voice, “have you ever harmed an animal?”

“Insolent whelp!” Oromë snarled as he turned to face the questioner. “How dare you ask me if I would hurt a creature under my care?”

“Let him speak, Oromë,” Varda intervened. “We must listen to each opinion. That is why we congregated. Ascend the dais, Prince. Let us hear your say.”

“My gratitude, Lady Varda,” said smoothly the Prince as he obeyed her. “Lord Oromë, I do apologise for that callous question. I know well that you would never harm an animal under your care.”

Oromë narrowed his eyes.

“Do you believe their lives are as important as the life of an Elf or a Maia?” the Prince asked solemnly.

“Nelyafinwë, you wretched-” Oromë began menacingly.

“Now, now,” Irmo cut in suavely, “let us hear what argument he spins, Oromë. It is a debate, after all.”

“My lord,” Maitimo stepped closer to Oromë and extended his palm upon which was a dragonfly. “Do you think the life of this creature is equal in worth to my own?”

“It is,” Oromë said curtly. “You may think that an animal is valued less because it does not write or read. You are wrong. Animals are equally wise as one of the Eldar or the Maiar can be. They think for themselves, for their mates, for their offspring, and for their packs. Get to your point, Nelyafinwë. That your grandfather lets you talk till you tire does not mean that the rest of us shall be so indulgent.”

“You have never harmed a dragonfly,” said Maitimo quietly.

“As he already said that he has not harmed a creature under his care,” Manwë interrupted, “your charade grows tiring, Nelyafinwë.”

“Lord Oromë, this is a male dragonfly,” Maitimo said, disregarding the irritated scowl on Oromë’s handsome face.

“I know that. I taught it to your grandfather, who taught his clan, long before you took it into your head to challenge me into a debate on a law that is just and necessary,” Oromë replied curtly.

“How do you know that it is male?” Nienna asked, curiosity spurring her.

“The colour, Nienna,” Oromë waved his hand at the dragonfly which seemed quite content to rest on the slender palm that held it. “The male dragonfly is azure blue.”

“Yes, milord,” Maitimo nodded respectfully. “Then you will say the same of this dragonfly too.” He opened the other palm and held up another dragonfly with the same colours streaked across its body.

Oromë frowned. The dragonflies droned and flew up from the extended palms that had been their perches. Then, one of the dragonflies latched itself to the other’s head with what seemed to be its rear legs. Rear legs? Did dragonflies have rear legs? Studying dragonflies had never occurred to me and I looked to Ektelë for information. He shrugged uneasily, his eyes holding worry for the boy.

“The male dragonfly,” Mairon said in a didactic tone that oozed authority, “has a second set of genitalia into which it obtains sperm from its primary genitalia.”

“A second set?” Laurefindë wrinkled his nose. “It does not appeal at all, Mairon. It has dampened my interest in carnality.”

Mairon’s lips quirked before he continued detachedly, “The male dragonflies have yet another trait...eccentricity, if you will. They copulate with their own.”

“What-” Ektelë began in incredulity.

“Indeed. As you can see, dragonflies mate in this position, with one clasping the other’s head so that they are in tandem, and head damage often occurs to the submissive one. This head damage cumulates over the life of the dragonfly, as the number of couplings increase over its lifespan. If the Prince has been clever enough to notice that, and I am certain that he has noticed, you can see that submissive male dragonflies have this head damage that occurs only by coupling.” Mairon’s lips twitched in amusement. “I take it the Prince did not come to know of this from his tutors.”

“By Varda, Mairon, you are right!” Laurefindë grasped his lover’s arm. “Look at them. They are clinging to each other! Oh, Mairon, they are in a wheel position, like we once-” Mairon pinched his arm and he fell silent. Then he frowned and added thoughtfully, “I feel like a voyeur.”

“You are being a voyeur, Laurefindë. Since you are so interested, let me satisfy your curiosity. The dominant one flies. The other rests. The duration may extend, depending on the insemination rate,” Mairon said. “Interesting experiment. Perhaps the Prince is more of a scientist than he lets on. How else could he have paid such attention to detail?”

“Stop this travesty!” Oromë shouted. “How dare you make them commit this?”

“Oromë,” Mandos said quietly, “the boy has not made them do anything. He simply chose to use his cleverness and picked a pair that was already inclined to this.”

“Would you kill them, milord?” Maitimo asked Oromë. “Would you punish them by chopping off their wings and turning them into earthworms? Would you send them to Nienna’s land and exile them to eternal isolation? You said that their lives are worth as much as our own in your eyes.”

“Nelyafinwë-” Manwë began.

“No, Manwë,” Ulmo cut in. “Nelyafinwë has made his point. He has proved it. He is right. Eru bade us be fair. If we are punishing the Elves, we must punish the dragonflies.”

“This is ridiculous,” Manwë said, irked. “Do away with the law then, Oromë! We cannot punish dragonflies and eels simply because you consider them on an equal par with the Maiar and the Eldar.”

The law was done away with. There was rejoicing, there were doubts, there were scandals as many chose to speak of their secrets and the fear that had driven us into silence was finally broken.

Mairon and Laurefindë made _excellent_ use of Eönwë’s townhouse in Tirion. Laurefindë was not the only one curious as to how exactly Mairon knew of the coupling habits of male dragonflies. But Mairon remained tight-lipped as ever and we were all left in the dark as to the sources of his knowledge.

The Prince was feted and dragged to every celebration which sprung across the land. We heard of unrest, of rumours, of the supposed blasphemies that the Prince believed in. But then, with the exhilarating taste of rightness running through our blood, we gave no heed to the dark underbelly of suspicion stirred by those who reviled the Prince, of which was born the first seeds of betrayal and bloodshed.

~~~

Under the skies of Valinor, with Manwë’s winds ruffling our hair and the gold of Laurelin shining down upon us, and dragonflies droning about, _bless the little creatures_ , I kissed Ektelë as we stood with our eyes closed in the shadow of Míriel’s statue that graced market-square of Tirion. He melted into my arms with a quiet sigh, and when I opened my eyes, my love for him was mirrored in his eyes as undoubtedly was his in mine.

My awakening was beside the Cuiviénen in his arms. My reawakening was under the cool shade of Míriel’s statue in his arms.

“There is no man more blessed than I am,” he whispered. “And no man happier.”

“You did not take me into account then,” I told him solemnly as I kissed him again and again, luxuriating in the truth that what we had was not a sin anymore in the eyes of those who had the right to judge, and revelling in the cheers of joy as our friends looked upon us.

 

~~~

 

[Hallelujah - A Love Story {2/3} ](http://j-dav.livejournal.com/161536.html)

* * *

  



	2. Chapter 2

* * *

**ACT II**

“Did you hear the latest tidings from Tirion?” Laurefindë asked as he strode into our courtyard, a fierce scowl on his features. 

“Messengers came from Mahtan with the tidings of Fëanáro’s work with Melkor,” I began cautiously. “You come with more distressing news, I take it? Should I summon Ektelë? He is in the library.”

“That boy should have married Elenwë,” Laurefindë muttered. “She would have been a tempering influence on him.”

“What has he done now?” I asked, worried. “He lives with his father now, doesn’t he? At Formenos?”

“He lives atop his horse,” Laurefindë snapped. “Mairon tells me that he was seen in Valmar fraternising with those who seek to undermine the authority of Manwë. If word gets about the town, he shall be in trouble.”

“Maitimo knows to keep a low profile even if he is upto something. But I am sure that he would have legitimate reasons for fraternising with the rebels. He would not be as foolish as to plot under Taniquetil’s nose. Why, Laurefindë, he has shown more maturity than Arafinwë has. The last I heard, Arafinwë was inciting the Noldor to challenge Fëanáro’s right to the throne.” 

“Salmë, Mairon does not worry about our daily politics. If he is worried, we would do well to be pay heed to these rumours,” Laurefindë insisted. 

“Maitimo was in the lands of the West conferring with Nienna,” I frowned. “I saw Elenwë and Itarillë in the market recently. Elenwë said that Maitimo is busy with affairs of the state. Perhaps he is acting as an emissary for the Crown.”

Laurefindë did not reply, choosing to brood as I poured him wine. I sighed and asked him, “What do you want me to do?”

“Salmë, I need help,” he said quietly. “It is Mairon. He has left the lands of Aule.”

“Did he finally give into Eönwë’s pleas and join the administration in Valmar?” I enquired, now truly concerned by his unusual soberness.

“I wish I knew, Salmë,” Laurefindë whispered. “I have given up trying to force him to confide in me. He is lying to me, Salmë. I asked Eönwë. I asked Varda. I asked Aule. I received platitudes and empty assurances that go no way to discover Mairon’s motives or doings of late.” 

Not him too. He deserved better. Everybody said that Mairon had hoodwinked Laurefindë into their relationship. But from what I had seen, the Maia had been pursued by my stubborn friend until he had succumbed to the inevitable. It seemed entirely out of character for Mairon to leave Aule’s forge without assuaging Laurefindë’s concerns. 

“What do you do when Ektelë hides matters from you?” Laurefindë asked, desperation shining in his green eyes as he implored me for counsel.

I found myself speaking in a low, frustrated tone, “Míriel spoke to Ektelë when she was pregnant with her son. To this day, Ektelë has kept her words a secret. He tells me that I should trust him. I do trust him. But to watch him tutoring her grandson in that cruel manner...there were moments when I did not trust him, Laurefindë. There were times when I believed that he was lying to me.”

“Was he?” Laurefindë asked softly.

“I wish I knew, Laurefindë. No, I take back that. I wish I never know.”

“But it is all coming down upon us, Salmë.” Laurefindë’s voice was strained by worry and pain. “Yesterday, Maitimo addressed a crowd in Valmar. He spoke of darkness coming down the southern peaks of the mountains. It was not one of his vague political speeches. He was in earnest.”

“Finwë is in exile. Nolofinwë might have attempted to talk sense to his nephew if he had not been buried under that scandal’s aftermath.”

“Salmë, what worries me the most is that Maitimo’s doomsaying might come true,” Laurefindë said. “Mairon’s evasion has not helped my worry. Eönwë said that he can sense something malicious stirring in the lower reaches of Hyarmentir.”

“Perhaps it is yet another squabble between Manwë and Melkor, Laurefindë,” I tried to convince us both. “The tug of war they have occasionally has spilled over to our lives. Mairon might be trying to protect you from their machinations.”

“Ektelë once said that Míriel was pawned in one of the power struggles between Manwë and Melkor,” Laurefindë told me. “Salmë, is Mairon in danger then?”

“Míriel was with child and greatly weakened by our journey hither. The Valar would not play with our lives, Laurefindë. They swore to protect us in the name of Eru. They are our guardians, our counsel and our rulers. The only danger that might arise of our involvement in their struggles would be political isolation. Mairon knows that you loathe politics. Perhaps that is why he seeks to keep you from that arena.”

Laurefindë’s green eyes held mine for a long moment before he exhaled a sigh. Then he reached across and embraced me saying, “You lie well, old friend. I leave for Valmar now. I must see Mairon. Stay safe, both of you. I cannot say when we will meet again.”

“Laurefindë,” I began in rising fear.

“Not a word, Salmë.” He gave a wry smile. “Save your lies for those who will believe them unquestioningly. I would have been taken in by your fine performance had I not been exposed to Mairon’s vices.”

Ektelë’s arms came around my waist and his chin came to rest on my shoulder as I watched Laurefindë riding east towards Valmar.

~~~

The silent darkness that fell upon our land did not scare me, for I was with Ektelë and a thousand others at the great festival in Valmar. But after Varda’s stars dispelled the darkness, I was frightened for the first time in my long life, for I saw Maitimo sobbing before the Gods, as he spoke of what had befallen their house in Formenos.

“Finwë is dead?” rose the cries of those who were listening to this tale of woe. “Alas! The King is dead!”

Fëanáro, looking gaunt and a mere shadow of his former self, stepped forward and bitterly accused Maitimo of having failed to protect the King. Ektelë flinched as Maitimo rocked himself. The poor boy was wracked by sobs, and a stream of soft apologies spilled from his lips. His robes were torn and his demeanour defeated, and when Varda’s starlight played on his face, I gasped at the self-recrimination in his eyes. 

“Oh, Ektelë, Ektelë, what have you done?” I hissed, grasping Ektelë’s arm in wrath. “See how he hates himself for what he could not prevent! You taught him that everything was his fault and now your lessons shall drive him to suicide!”

The Gods did not intervene as the bereaved smith flayed the weeping son with his bitter words. The Eldar and Maiar looked on in horror, and in the sacred silence were heard only sobs and Fëanáro’s words. 

Then stepped forth the bard and his eyes narrowed in silent challenge as he glared at his father. 

“Russandol,” said Macalaurë as he knelt by his weeping brother, shielding the shame of Maitimo’s tears from the crowd’s eyes by enfolding him in those slender arms, “you failed nobody, whatever some may think.” 

He coaxed his brother to his feet and escorted him to where Findekáno and Findaráto stood. After pressing a chaste kiss to his brother’s cheek, Macalaurë turned back to meet Fëanáro’s eyes. The fire in the bard’s eyes nearly overwhelmed Fëanáro’s own.

Father and son stared at each other for several uneasy moments, before Fëanáro cleared his throat and said quietly, “Maitimo, I thank Eru that you are safe and unharmed. No jewel I make will ever match the love I bear for you, my son.” 

“I should have died,” Maitimo said hollowly. “I did nothing to save him.” 

“You are no God. You did all you could do,” Fëanáro said gently. 

Then his brows drew together and his eyes held fire as he turned to face the Gods. “If those who call themselves the Valar failed to see this coming, then I hold them responsible for what I have lost today.” 

And that accusation ushered in the end of our era of peace.

~~~

“Salmë!” 

Ektelë was running after me, his bloodied sword held at the ready as his eyes darted to and fro to keep track of the melee we had found ourselves in after following Arafinwë’s soldiers.

I was furious. Furious with Melkor for killing my old friend Finwë, furious with Fëanáro for stirring our people into rebellion, furious with the Telerin for refusing to see sense and let us have our way in order to save lives, furious with Nolofinwë who should have done more to rein in his brother. But most furious was I with Ektelë for his eerie sadness which seemed to convey that he was not shocked out of his wits as the rest of us undoubtedly were. 

“Pay heed, Salmë!” Ektelë barked as he chopped off the head of a Telerin soldier who had raised sword at me.

“Damnation, Ektelë!” I shouted, tears of fury and helplessness escaping me. “Put down your bloody sword! We must stop this!”

Stained by the blood of friend and foe, worn out by this battle and mourning for Finwë, Ektelë looked like a ghost. He shook his head and pulled me close to him, fighting the Telerin swordsmen who dared attack us.

“Don’t, please, don’t!” 

I begged him to no avail as he cut down yet another opponent mercilessly. I fell to my knees and tried to inspect the dying man’s ghastly wound. I would not have any part in this bloodshed, I vowed. I would die before I killed another in the name of a dead King. Clenching my jaw in determination, I pried off the helm of the fallen man even as Ektelë battled the Telerin soldiers.

The man I had been trying to help looked at me, sneered in disgust and spat out that word that would haunt me till the end. 

“Kinslayer!” 

He died in my arms. Ektelë battled the dead man’s comrades. Laurefindë was fury given form as he killed with precision and ruthlessness. Vultures circled the docks. The sails of the Telerin ships billowed towards the darkness in the east as the last of the ship builders were slaughtered. Olwe fell before my eyes and the look of horror on his features when he saw his slayer remained even as his corpse passed into rigor mortis. Fëanáro swore that he would make Melkor and Manwë rue this day. Macalaurë bade Nerdanel farewell before leading her to Eönwë and entrusting her to his care. Atarinkë’s young child, Telpe, was being coaxed to calm by Maitimo. Maitimo himself looked as if he had yawed through death’s waters. 

“Salmë?” 

It was Elenwë. Her young daughter was clinging to her robes. In Elenwë’s left hand was loosely clasped a sword. I closed my eyes. What had it all come to that a woman, a mother, had taken up sword?

“Here, take my cloak. You look chilled,” she said, wrapping her cloak around my shoulders. “Ektelë and Laurefindë are with Arafinwë. You can join them, or help me search for Artanis.”

I shook my head wearily as I met her concerned blue eyes. “If you will, Elenwë, I can take care of your Itarillë while you search for Artanis.”

She patted my shoulder and pushed her young child towards me. I bundled her in the borrowed cloak and ruffled her hair as Elenwë walked away. 

“When will they wake up?” Itarillë asked, staring at the dead and the dying we were surrounded by. 

I turned the girl’s eyes into the darkness of the cloak and buried my face in the gold of her hair. 

Mandos spoke our doom. Maitimo was a spectre of fire and light as he defied the God. With words impassionate and inciting, he roused the Noldor into fiery rebellion. Swords were raised and oaths renewed as the scions of Finwë swore to lead us to freedom and glory. The earth trembled at the raucous shouts of mutiny. Telerin blood dried under my feet, Itarillë patiently waited for the dead to rise, and I wept for them all.

~~~

Ektelë approached me as I trudged beside Elenwë and Itarillë. Such weariness, grief and regret played across his features that I pitied him for a fraction of a moment before hardening my heart. Pity was for the woman and the children - for the innocents, widowed and orphaned. Pity was not for those who had drawn swords. Pity was not for those who had killed in the name of madness.

I did not acknowledge him.

~~~

“Return with me, Salmë,” Arafinwë said gently. “You cannot follow them, my friend. Your heart would not bear what the madness will drive them to.”

“Yes,” Elenwë clutched my forearm and implored me. “Please go with Arafinwë, Salmë. The Gods will not punish you. You shed no blood that day. Return to Valinor. You will not last if you come with us.”

“Will you, Elenwë?” I asked bitterly.

She hesitated before shaking her head. Then she said softly, “I have killed, Salmë. It was for protecting Itarillë. But I have shed blood. Does a mother kill to protect, asks my conscience, or does a mother die to protect? It is wrong. My daughter’s life was saved at the cost of another’s death. I can only pray, though well I know that the Gods shall not heed the prayer of a kinslayer, that atonement is not my child’s to bear.”

“Elenwë,” I began, and shook my head as I cursed Melkor yet again.

“Go with Arafinwë, please,” she implored. 

My gaze turned west where lay the paradise that had been ours. Then I turned east and met the haunted gaze of the man who had woken to life in my arms beside the waters of awakening. 

Arafinwë embraced me and kissed my cheek. I watched, stricken, as he gathered the timid and the repentant to him. He led them back to that land I had called home. Elenwë coaxed me to walk beside her as we joined the straggle of exiles who had believed in a madman’s promise.

~~~

Findaráto was a handsome man. He was disillusioned and frightened. Ektelë turned to him and the camp spoke of their carnal exploits. 

“You are not as inconsolable as I thought you might be,” said Laurefindë when he came to join me where I stood looking over the Lake Mithrim.

“What brings you here?” I asked, choosing to ignore the malice in his tone.

Laurefindë had changed. All of us had. But in Laurefindë, the change screamed to be acknowledged. Alqualondë had swallowed the vibrant life from my friend, leaving him a husk of what he had been. Every dawn saw him looking east where rumours said lurked an abhorred sorcerer who was thrall to Moringotto. Mairon’s betrayal had left Laurefindë apathetic and he took cruel delight in bringing up the subject of Ektelë’s infidelity. 

A flash of regret passed over Laurefindë’s expressive face. “I apologise for my callousness,” said he quietly. “I get carried away.” He cleared his throat agitatedly. “Lord Kanafinwë wants to see you.”

Macalaurë? I frowned. The gossip in the barracks was that dwelling upon his brother’s fate had turned him insane. That Fëanáro had been supposedly mad towards the end lent credence to this rumour. The bard was his father’s son. 

As I made my way to Nolofinwë’s settlement where Macalaurë was interred after his younger brothers had given up on him, my thoughts turned towards Ektelë once again. He had not even acknowledged me once after we had stepped on dry land. 

Disjointed plucking on a harp broke me from my brooding and I inclined my head to greet Macalaurë. A contrary creature was this bard. Systematically and determinedly had he gone about cultivating an image that was at odds with Fëanáro’s. Yet this contrary nature of his was what truly made him his father’s progeny. Had Fëanáro not done the same to step away from Finwë’s shadow?

“Salmë,” he said quietly. “The Grey Elves call you Salgant, I am told.”

I had not heard of that. Then again, I rarely chose to leave my tent that was my refuge. I taught young Itarillë and helped Turkáno. That was all. Perhaps Macalaurë wanted me to contribute more to this settlement. If he asked it of me, I would give my all if only to assuage my own guilt. If only I had stopped Ektelë from teaching the boy to make a living self-hating martyr of himself...at least Maitimo would have died in peace. They spoke of how he was clinging to his wretched life even after Moringotto had broken that beautiful mind into smithereens. 

“You must be curious to know what I have summoned you for,” Macalaurë remarked. 

“If I may be of service,” I said sincerely, “I would do my utmost.”

He waved an impatient hand and began pacing. His brows drew together in contemplation as he started speaking. 

“I want nothing from you, Salmë. I merely wished to ask if I may be of aid to you. Perhaps I can order reconciliation between Ektelë and you?” 

I was taken aback by his matter-of-fact speech. Even as I stared at him in incredulity, he went on, “My brother would have wanted that.”

“Strange then that my discord with Ektelë has your brother at the core,” I said bitterly.

The perfectly masked face slipped not, but the tear in his voice when he spoke of his brother could not cloak what was hidden. He turned to face me, his coal black eyes depthless tunnels of agony. 

“I mourn not the death of my father,” said he quietly. “I mourn my living brother.” 

“He is strong,” I rasped, my fingers extending towards him in a futile gesture of assurance. 

“Is he?” he spat. “Then, tell me, Salmë, why do our scouts speak of an animal chained to the rocks of Angband? Why do the thralls that escape speak of a corpse that breathes? Why did my father cry for his firstborn before he died?” He took a deep breath. “I hate Míriel Serindë more than I hate the Gods, Salmë. If this is legacy, then I say, may her soul never know peace!” 

“Macalaurë.” I clasped his bony shoulder to offer paltry sympathy. 

Even as he shook my hand off came in running a messenger who gasped, “Lord Findekáno has returned with the Prince.”

I gasped and Macalaurë’s hands came to cover his face as he whispered, “The only time I have prayed, Salmë, I prayed for his death. Of course, the Gods could not grant me that.”

~~~

“Salmë!” 

It was Laurefindë. Behind him was Ektelë. I composed myself and nodded cautiously to greet them. Tears streaked Ektelë’s face and I knew what was tormenting him.

“They say that he will recover,” I assured them. 

“Have you been able to see him?” Ektelë asked. Those were the first words he had spoken to me since coming to this land.

I looked at Laurefindë whose vibrant green eyes had dulled into mediocrity. I remembered Nolofinwë holding a silent vigil by the lakeside, his brother’s cape wrapped about his shoulders. I remembered the gaunt visage of Turkáno looking wistfully at his daughter in whose visage we all saw the legacy of a marigold that had fallen by the wayside. Then there was Macalaurë, who had prayed for his brother’s death. It was so easy to lose everything. 

“Ektelë,” said I quietly, “I am not angry with you.” 

His lone eye widened and he stood there speechless. I shook my head and walked over to embrace him. His frame trembled as he leant in instinctively to rest his chin upon my shoulder.

“While this is cosy,” Laurefindë drawled, bitterness lending acid to his words, “I believe we came here to enquire of the Prince. Will he live? They say that he is more insane than his father ever was.”

I did not reply. Dawn broke over the lake and Ektelë’s fingers rested over my heart. Melody rose from harpstrings and the bard’s golden voice sanctified the air we breathed. For a moment, we were innocent again as the music cleansed away the blood upon our souls. Cheers of joy and admiration resounded in the settlement as an emaciated man was helped onto a log table by his valiant cousin. He placed his hand on his saviour’s shoulder to balance himself. Familiar unruly cuprite hair flew wild in the eastern wind. The eyes that looked down upon us were cold chips of smoky quartz. Clumsiness marred him as he lifted his hand from his cousin’s shoulder. 

“Give me your sword, cousin,” said the man in a voice rough-hewn by screams and sobs. 

The cousin hesitated but obeyed the command, unsheathing his sword and passing it carefully. The man swayed slightly under the weight of the sword but his will prevailed and aloft he held the blade. Dawn rays shone upon Fëanorian steel as the Prince slowly circled once, his grey eyes coolly holding the gaze of every man that dared look. 

“Once I said that there would be suffering, and I swore that I would suffer more than you had to. Once I said that there would be blood, and I swore that I would shed the last drop of mine before letting a single drop of yours be shed. Once I said that there would be death, and I swore that as long as my sword arm prevailed, not one of you would be claimed by Námo. Here I stand before you now,” he said, impassioned, as he waved the sword with a fervour that was born more of will than of strength. “Here I stand before you, and I bid you, look at me. Look at me!” He made a sweeping motion to highlight what he was. Not one eye remained dry as we listened to him. “I suffered torment at the hands of God, sorcerer, man, beast and nature. I shed the last drop of my blood upon the rocks of Thangorodrim. I died and vultures feasted upon my corpse. But I returned. I returned for you! Now I swear again, by the sun that shines upon us now. I promise you blood, I promise you tears and I promise you death. But so do I promise you glory, freedom, revenge and victory. And of us shall lore say: they lived!” 

“Harken to my cousin!” Findekáno leapt onto the log table and lent his strength to his cousin to hold the sword aloft. “Harken to the Prince! The Noldor shall rise again!”

“Revenge, freedom and victory!” shouted Atarinkë as he lifted his sword. 

Nolofinwë bid the heralds raise our standard and as one, the warriors lifted their blades. Thus plummeted the Noldor into madness yet again. Even as my heart bled, I reflected how ironic it was that in times of unity did my clan transgress more than when divided into warring factions. 

“I promise you, Salmë, it will end well,” said the man who had woken in my arms under the spread of Varda’s stars. His fingers clasped mine and gently, yet firmly, forced my hand to lift my sword, overriding my reluctance to do so. 

Manwë’s winds howled their displeasure, a dark cloud rose above Angband, and the rising sun spilled carmine on the revenant spectre that had conjured us hope.

~~~

“Not Turkáno!” Ektelë exclaimed. “We must remain in Beleriand where the battle is! Turkáno intends to hide and wait for a portent from the west.”

“I leave with Turkáno.”

Ektelë began an attempt at dissuading me yet again. I let him speak while remaining unmoved in my decision. I would not be wavered. Too often had I let him choose for us. I did not regret that. But this was one decision that he would have to abide by. Beleriand called for a life of sword and blood. Turkáno intended to build a kingdom and stay clear of strife. As ridden by guilt and disgusted by sword as I was, I would not follow the Princes of Beleriand even if it meant a life in hiding. Cowardice gave an easier conscience than carnage. 

“Laurefindë intends to offer his service to Findekáno,” Ektelë tried to make me feel guilty for abandoning our friend. “He wants to lead our men on the frontlines.”

“I have spoken with Nolofinwë. He has decreed that Laurefindë shall accompany Turkáno, Ektelë. He is blinded by hatred and would be a liability on the frontlines. So he is better off serving Turkáno.”

For once, I had surpassed Ektelë’s talent at premeditation. If it was in my hands, so Eru help me, I would not let another drop of blood taint our hands.

~~~

Laurefindë and Ektelë established themselves as the finest of Turkáno’s captains. Ondolindë prospered and Itarillë bloomed into womanhood under her father’s doting care. I began to hope that this life in hiding would free us of the past. Yet the past returned to haunt us: the azure blue of Itarillë’s eyes reminded us of her mother, the Eagles brought Nolofinwë’s corpse to his son, and tidings came to us of the fall of Tol Sirion.

We heard of Lúthien, and of the man who coveted her. We heard of how Beren implored Findaráto to repay his debt to Beregond. Laurefindë wept when we heard of the sorcerer who had Findaráto slaughtered by werewolves. 

Then betrayal shed the first drop of blood on this untainted land and the Dark Elf slew the woman he coveted. When Irissë’s blood stained the floor, I knew that Ondolindë would fall. Turkáno was stricken and the Dark Elf was thrown off the cliffs of the encircling mountains. 

Irissë the White was laid to rest upon the same mountain-top where was interred her father; and Turkáno built a cairn over her as he had built a cairn over Nolofinwë. It was only meet that father and daughter were buried so, for no man had loved a daughter as deeply as Nolofinwë had. Mountain lilies grew wild on her tomb embodying the essence of her untamed spirit.

~~~

With Irissë’s death, Turkáno lapsed into dotage. Overriding the counsel of his friends and the choice of his daughter’s heart, he had her married to one of the Atani who had come with one of Ulmo’s favoured. The marigold withered before our eyes and a bitter husk of malice took its place. Laurefindë tried to warn Turkáno. Young Lómion discovered the secret of Itarillë’s heart after her marriage to the Atan. Yet there was nothing he could do.

Turkáno underestimated his child. 

In the winter after Itarillë’s son was born, came Thorondor bearing an epistle from Sirion for the King. It bore the seal of Finwë. The King fell into self-imposed isolation after reading the contents. 

“Atarinkë is dead,” Laurefindë told me later.

~~~

I was teaching Eärendil the names of the stars. Ektelë was combing my hair and occasionally pressing kisses to the nape of my neck. Laurefindë and Itarillë were seated together across us. Itarillë’s pensive brooding had us all worried. Her father was still mourning for Atarinkë and her husband was busy with administration. Lómion had been sent to the mines by the King despite the young man’s pleas to be allowed to stay in the city. 

“Laurefindë,” Itarillë finally broke the silence, “did you ever try to meet that man you loved?”

“No,” Laurefindë snapped. Then he took a deep breath and answered in a gentler tone, “No, Itarillë. He kills, maims and tortures in the name of a monster who is our greatest enemy. Why would I want to do anything with him?”

“Do you think he remembers you?” she persisted.

An indiscernible emotion flashed across Laurefindë’s features before he said, “I was told by someone that he remembers me. I hope he does, Itarillë. When I face him in battle, I want him to remember me as I deal him the killing blow.”

Itarillë’s voice trembled as she whispered, “He will come for you.”

“What?” Laurefindë shot to his feet in incredulity. “What inanity do you spout?”

~~~

On the eve of Tarnin Austa, all of Ondolindë waited before the walls to greet the first day of summer. Red flared the sunrays from beyond the eastern ranges of Echoriath.

“Oh, bright is the sunrise this day!” said young Eärendil.

And red flared the fires of sorcery from the north. And men ceased calling the sunbeams bright.

“Mairon!” cursed Laurefindë, his eyes narrowing at the familiar feel of the Maia’s necromancy. “Archers! Archers to the walls!” He did not spare a moment’s hesitation before charging to protect his King and land. Our Laurefindë of old had returned to us that day. His eyes shone with renewed purpose as he strove to defend our besieged city. This was the stubborn warrior who had broken Mairon’s defences and taught him to love. 

“Would that he prevails again!” Ektelë begged fate.

It was not to be. At the first light of the new day, Mairon’s sorcery brought down the walls of our city. 

“The women and children to me!” screamed Itarillë. “To the secret passage!”

“Itarillë!” her husband rushed to her side, as did Lómion. 

“Lómion will accompany me,” she told her husband. “Find my father, please!”

“Let Lómion search for your father,” Tuor shouted over the furore of battle. “Come with me, Itarillë!”

“Somebody must lead the women and the children safely to the other side,” Ektelë told me. “I know you will not raise sword in battle, Salmë. Go with them. Lead them out. I will cover the retreat with Laurefindë and the others.”

They would not make it alive. I swallowed and slowly drew out my sword which I always carried despite my vow to keep it sheathed. I would not kill; but I would disarm or injure any opponent to buy time for the women and the children. Ektelë knew it was the end. He had not pressed me to take up sword despite knowing so.

“Salmë, no!” Ektelë’s eye had widened. 

“You know it is over,” I said gently. “Vows matter nothing now.”

“No,” he said agitatedly. “You are untainted by blood, Salmë. I would not have that change whatever awaits us today.”

“Ektelë, to your left!” shouted Laurefindë as he arced through the battle like a fell swoop of golden death.

Ektelë swung around to meet his opponent’s charge, shielding my body with his own all the while. We were not fighting against our own blood here. These were orcs, bestial and unworthy of life. Could I not slay them? It should be as easy as slaughtering hens before a feast. 

“Careful!” shouted Tuor as he pushed me aside from the path of a black arrow. 

Ektelë gripped my forearm and backed me against the base of a fountain. Now that he had to defend only on one front, he began despatching his enemies with cruel precision. I stood limply with my hands gripping the hilt of my sword. Black was the blood of the orcs and yet I could not summon the courage to slaughter these creatures. They were once Quendi. 

“Lord Lómion has fallen!” came the anguished cry of our men and Itarillë screamed. 

“Varda!” shouted Laurefindë as he threw himself in the path of the besieging army, unleashing his fury upon them. “Ektelë, Tuor, lead them across the Eagle’s Cleft! I can hold back these brutes.”

Too soon had he spoken, for behind the cavalcade of orcs was an army of Valaraukar. Women screamed and a stampede ensued as they sought to escape those demons of fire and shadow.

“To me!” called Tuor. “To me! Make haste and let us cross Cirith Thoronath!”

Laurefindë was retreating now, terror washing across his noble visage as he sought to escape the demons. He would not make it, we realised in horror, for long whips of fire lashed out at him from more than one direction. He screamed, red flared Mairon’s sorcery and the Valaraukar scattered. 

Ektelë shouted in warning as one of the demons began pursuing the Tuor-led retreat. Then he turned to kiss my cheek before leaping into the path of the nearest Valarauko. 

“Ektelë!” I gasped and closed my eyes when the stench of burning hair hit my nostrils. 

His lone eye met mine before he ducked out of the whip’s reach. Crying out my name, he leapt onto the plinth of a fountain and hurled his sword into the monster’s neck. The creature faltered and a whiplash struck my thigh. I howled in pain as my flesh burned. Ektelë shouted in wrath and picked up a fallen orc sabre before hurling it at the monster’s chest. An unearthly scream of pain rang out and the fires stopped burning in the Valarauko’s eyes. 

“Ektelë killed a Valarauko!” shouted our men, and hope burgeoned in despairing hearts. “We can kill them! Send to the hell they belong! For the Noldor!”

“For the Noldor!” cried Laurefindë as he covered the back of the retreat. 

“They are nearly there,” Ektelë said. “Once they cross the Eagle’s cleft, they will live.”

“What are we waiting for? Let us avenge our King!” shouted Laurefindë.

I pried myself free from Ektelë’s restraining grasp and rushed to the fountains. Taking an axe, I began breaking the plinths. Water gushed out. The fountains of Ondolindë were built in a cascade down the valley. The turbulence of water took the demons by surprise and our men grabbed the upper hand in battle finally. Tuor’s retreat was half-way across the Eagle’s Cleft.

Ektelë’s scream of pain made me turn and fear clutched my heart as I found him in the burning grip of Kosomot, slayer of Fëanáro, conqueror of Húrin of Dor-lómin, Lord of Valaraukar, Marshal of Moringotto’s hosts and the High-Captain of Angband.

Laurefindë was fending off two of the monsters. I threw the axe at Kosomot, aiming for the neck as Ektelë had done earlier. The monster staggered, but did not drop Ektelë. Whips flailed through the air and cracked fire across Ektelë’s helpless body. I rushed down, my sword raised in offence and Ektelë’s name on my lips. 

“No, Salmë!” entreated Ektelë. “Flee!”

Idiot. 

I circumvented Kosomot and leapt from behind, embedding my blade deep into the hot core of the monster’s body between his shoulder blades. My fingers burned and I nearly blacked out from the excruciating pain. Kosomot grunted and staggered before throwing me off. Ektelë squirmed free from his hold and fell at the monster’s feet. With the last dregs of his strength, Ektelë picked up a fallen blade and dug it into the monster’s left calf. Kosomot fell into the fountain with a resounding crash. I hauled myself to my hands and knees and crawled over to the smoking remains of Kosomot.

“Ektelë,” I rasped. “Stick out your damn hand.”

Only smoke and burning flesh. 

“Ektelë!” my voice took on a higher pitch as I began scrabbling through the ruins. Warm flesh met my fingers and I pulled at the heavy weight. A severed leg fell into my lap and I gagged.

“Ektelë, please,” I sobbed, kissing the toes on that detached leg. I had kissed those toes under Varda’s stars beside the Lake Cuiviénen. I had kissed those toes in the comfort of our bed after Maitimo had won for us the right to partnership. Damn it all, I had teasingly kissed those toes yesterday night before making love to him.

A woman’s scream resounded in the air and I observed detachedly as one of the few remaining Valarauko stood between safety and the retreat. Laurefindë swooped down to meet his fell enemy, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. Brave and valiant was he as he defeated the monster. The men cheered and the women wept in relief. The last of the retreat had made it safely across Cirith Thoronath. Laurefindë’s eyes held wrathful triumph before widening in horror, for across the cleft, etched in black against the burning city, stood Mairon. There was immeasurable wistfulness etched across the sorcerer’s visage as he watched Laurefindë.

“Begone,” said the sorcerer quietly, and the winds fell silent. “The sunbeam was never mine to touch.”

“Mairon,” whispered Laurefindë and that single word was an entreaty, a command and a question. “The sunbeam chose to touch you.”

Fires rose higher. The great palace of Turkáno crumbled. Eagles flew in wary circles above us. Black arrows felled the soldiers entrapped in the city. 

And Mairon’s eyes drank in the visage of his golden love one last time before he turned away. Laurefindë stepped forward, and his entreaty became a death knell as a fiery whip rose from the cleft to twine itself about his waist.

Mairon turned to see his sunbeam falling into the dark chasm of Cirith Thornath.

~~~

“Bind the prisoners! Kill none. We take them to the mines of our master,” barked Mairon as he oversaw the pull back. 

“Sauron! Gothmog has been slain!” cried out an orc-chieftain.

Black robes grazed my burnt flesh and I looked up blearily into the sorcerer’s face. He knelt by my side and gloved fingers ran along the length of Ektelë’s leg which I still clutched to my chest. 

“Lover, was it?” he wondered aloud. “Or perhaps your father? The flesh feels old. I can sense the lingering scent of Cuiviénen.”

He had not recognised me then. He bade the orcs dig through the rubble and then gave a low cry of surprise as he stooped over what they had unearthed. Sobbing, I slithered over across the wreckage of the fountain and the burning remains of the monster to see for myself. The orcs had pulled out a charred corpse that lacked one leg. 

“Ektelë!” I screamed, pushing aside the orcs with inhuman strength and crawling over to the corpse. My head fell onto the blackened breastplate and I stiffened when heartbeat drummed against my ear. I could not afford to let them know that he lived yet. 

“Life has a way of creeping back into your veins, does it not?” Mairon’s voice was taunting. “Well, well, well, what have we here? The slayer of my master’s High-Captain breathing his last.” Smooth words oiled malice and intent. “Do you know that I excel at capturing the souls of the dying into a new body? I can reunite you with your companion for eternity. I am sure that your love shall weather the minor fact that he would be in the shape of a goblin.”

Laurefindë had loved this monster. Laurefindë must have loved him for a reason. I tried to convince myself of that as I looked up at the implacable features of the sorcerer. 

“Mercy was denied to you by your virtuous Gods across the sea. Why then should the abhorred grace you with compassion?”

“Would you have withheld compassion if in my place was Laurefindë?” I croaked, shielding Ektelë’s dying body with my own. 

“Cut off his tongue,” Mairon commanded one of the orcs in the coarse language which desecrated the power of speech. 

“Please, kill him cleanly, please, if you ever loved Laurefindë,” I begged Mairon even as he waved his hand irritably at the orcs to get on with their task. I was held down and my tongue forced out.

“Wait,” said Mairon quietly. “I will offer you a single chance, Elf, and know that in doing so I am more merciful than the Gods you swear by. If you cut out your own tongue, I will let you use the same blade to kill your lover.”

It merely showed how deeply the Gods hated us when a blunt, black blade was shoved into my hands. The orcs stepped back. Mairon was watching me emotionlessly. Ektelë’s chest rose and fell. Screwing up my eyes, I sent Varda one final, futile plea before grabbing my tongue with my left hand and hacking it off. One hack was not enough, nor was two, for the blade was cruelly blunt. I had long stopped praying for the deliverance of death.

“Well done, Elf,” Mairon - no, Sauron - said smoothly when the organ fell into the pool of blood upon Ektelë’s breastplate. 

My eyes were inexorably dragged to Ektelë’s visage one final time and I whimpered upon seeing that beloved eye holding my gaze. 

“Salmë, my Salmë,” rasped the man I loved. I could not afford to take chances. The blade was blunt. I had to ensure that he died quickly before Sauron changed his mind. Ektelë’s hand came to caress my bloodied lips before falling limp. A ghastly smile of benediction remained painted on his visage even after I had driven the blade deep into his neck.

~~~

[Act III](http://j-dav.livejournal.com/161925.html)

**Wordlist**  
Kosomot - Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs  
Atan - Adan, Man  
Atani - Men  
Cirith Thoronath - Eagle's Cleft  
Tarnin Austa - The Gates of Summer festival   
Ondolindë - Gondolin  
Valarauko - Balrog  
Valaraukar - Balrogs

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

****

ACT III 

“Salmë!” 

I knew that voice. I remembered it singing paeans to Manwë during the great festivals in Valmar. Perhaps I was finally losing my grip on sanity to imagine that voice now.

“Oh, Varda! What have they done to you?” cried out the voice in pity as gentle hands clasped my shoulders before embracing me.

It must have been a dream sent by Moringotto. A cruel respite from reality. I banged my head against the rock walls to wake myself. 

“Cease, Salmë!” Long fingers lifted my chin and I stared into worried, blue eyes. 

“Yes, it is I, Eönwë.” He pulled me to my feet and looped one of my limp arms about his shoulder to lend me strength. 

When we staggered out of the mines, cries of joy rose all around. I kept my eyes closed and even then the harsh sunlight hurt my nerves. 

“My poor child, my poor, poor child,” murmured a voice that was compassion itself and I found myself enfolded in Nienna’s embrace. “Let us go home and heal.”

I struggled in her hold. She stilled and lifted my chin to look into my eyes. Into my gaze, I put all the despair, bitterness and hatred compressed within me. Yet nothing would suffice to convey the deepest pathos of my life – I had killed the man who had woken to life in my arms. Where were the cymbals, the standards, the heralds and the Gods when we needed them?

“Hate us all you want,” she whispered, and a single tear coursed down her cheek. 

I tried to spit at her, but I was wearied beyond measure. Silently weeping, I buried my face in her bosom and let go of consciousness.

~~~

“Salmë,” greeted the no-nonsense voice of Nerdanel. “Now that you finally choose to grace us with your conscious attention, I can continue my abandoned work in my forge. Before you start wondering, we are in my house at Valmar. I am married to Eönwë. He brought you here. Now take this parchment,” she shoved a parchment into my lap, “and this quill,” she dropped it atop the parchment, “and let us communicate, shall we?”

Seeing the impatient glare she pinned me down with, I had proof that I was not dreaming. I could not help a wan smile at that and nodded my assent to her question.

“Well, the Valar have decreed that you seek solace either in the gardens of Irmo or in the sanctuary of Nienna. Despite my utmost effort, and Arafinwë’s pleas, we were not allowed to let you stay with us.”

 _Nienna,_ I wrote. My hand was barely legible and I had forgotten some alphabets. But despair refused to drag me down. Perhaps it had to do with the startling sight of my clean nails and the sunrays that softly filtered through the curtains.

“I believe that is a wise decision, Salmë. Now, what would you like for dinner?”

_Lobsters._

“That can be arranged. I bought lobsters from the market earlier for I remembered you preferring them to fish at balls and festivals.” She smiled warmly and pressed a kiss to my cheek before leaving me to my thoughts.

~~~

Eönwë built a small house for me in the lands under Nienna’s protection. It was on a cliff and if I looked out the west-facing window, I could see the ocean meeting the uttermost West. Nerdanel and her father, Mahtan, arrived one day with a cart and arranged the furniture they had crafted for my house. Nerdanel told me that I should refer to the place as my home. But I insisted on terming it my house. Home was where Ektelë had been. Home I would never know again.

I was not living. I was existing.

Arafinwë and Nerdanel would often try to draw me into their lives but adamantly I refused to return to the past. Arafinwë gave up and retreated to his palace in Tirion. Nerdanel did not give up. She sent a young woman to me.

Carnilótë, the widow of Macalaurë Fëanorion, was a woman who had risen to extraordinariness by circumstances none of her own making. She told me of her work. 

“I am translating the journals of Nolofinwë and my husband into Sindarin,” said she. “I believe they will give our children an unbiased account of the past. My script is unremarkable. Nerdanel said that you have a beautiful hand.”

Honesty and quiet determination were her weapons. I ended up agreeing to become her calligraphist. Long hours we whiled away in reminiscence whenever we came across a passage in the journals that detailed events we had lived through. She had collected an invaluable trove of personal journals, letters, official correspondences and eyewitness accounts of the wars of Beleriand. The more sordid events described in the journal of Nolofinwë did not surprise me, for Nolofinwë had a reputation for carnality even before he had come of age. Carnilótë insisted on editing several passages.

 _It does not matter,_ I wrote. _They are all dead._

“Yes, but we must think of Nerdanel.” That was her last word upon the subject and I let her have her way. 

She was remarkably reluctant to start the journal of her husband. I had been looking forward to it with eager anticipation. The bard’s prose and unbiased narration would only aid our endeavour to give the next generation a kinder, less impassionate version of our crimes. 

“My husband was an honest man,” she said as she ran her fingers reverently along the elegant calligraphy of the bard. “Before we start, Salmë, you must promise that you shall not judge him.”

I frowned in perplexity. I had not judged Nolofinwë. Why would I judge the bard?

 _You have my word of honour,_ wrote I to appease her worry.

She read aloud and I began my transcript. The bard had loved. How he had loved! The fire of his pure devotion stirred my memories of Ektelë and I was unsurprised to find myself silently crying when she read to me those words of confession that the Prince had spoken all those years ago.

“You are my keeper, my owner and my God.” 

Those tears were the first step to acceptance of fate. Nienna embraced Carnilótë that evening when she came to visit us. The journals would remain in our private collection. But I would finish my transcripts. Reliving the past through the eyes of the bard in my sessions with Carnilótë slowly opened my festering wounds and I found myself narrating the tale of my own love while Carnilótë remained a silent reader of my confessions.

_He woke to life in my arms. I loved him. And I killed him._

She did not reply, instead choosing to pour me more tea. Tea was her one indulgence. She insisted on tea being at hand whenever we had a session. This tradition had grown on me. Tea was soothing, it was fortifying, and most importantly, it was a return to the mundane. 

_Thank you._ My hand shook as I wrote those words.

“No,” she said with a wan smile. “I must thank you, Salmë. Your courage lends me hope to go on. I loved that stubborn man whom I married all those years ago, you see. I still love him. Part of me hoped that he might make do with what I had to offer when he ended up on these shores bereaved and lost. Our conversations have made me realise that one cannot simply make do with someone else when the very core of oneself has been stolen by death and fate.”

I stared at her with new respect. She shook her head and plunged on with her confession.

“I was young. He was the most eligible man in that court and scarcely could I believe my good fortune when the marriage was proposed by Nolofinwë. Though Macalaurë had a sharp tongue when provoked, he could woo and flatter women like no other man could. I had heard tales of his liaison with Artanis. But when Artanis herself promised me that she would not interfere, I thought, foolishly, that I would win his heart. When he said his vows, he meant them. We were happy together for a short while, even though he was ruling the lands closest to the enemy’s realm. Then came the dragon and we fled to Himring. It was there that I saw the terrible wretchedness in my husband’s eyes when he looked upon his brother. Lord Nelyafinwe was a broken man. Such need had he for a constant in his turbulent life that I began to believe in fatalism.” 

She took a sip of tea before saying softly, “Macalaurë was my husband. But he was Lord Nelyafinwe’s religion.” 

Her brand of fatalism left its indelible mark on my thoughts. I began thinking that Ektelë’s death could not be my crime because there was nothing else I could have done then. It was either death by my blade or his soul entrapped in goblin-flesh. Surely death was better than such abomination? Ektelë had forgiven me. He had smiled in benediction at the end. The Gods had forgiven me, though I found myself increasingly uncaring of what they thought on the matter. 

The true question was if I could forgive myself. If only I had died with him then, or if I had died in the mines like the other prisoners...I did not deserve to live having killed the one man who had given my life meaning. Then it hit me. Carnilótë had been trying to make me realise it from the very first day we had spoken. Too disillusioned by life was I that I had embraced a slow fading out from existence. I met her warm, brown eyes and she saw that I had finally understood.

“Welcome back, Salmë,” she said.

~~~

After the last great war in which Arda had been reshaped, and the land cleansed by fire and water, Carnilótë came to visit me again. This time, she had a cadaverous man in tow.

“Salmë, this is Celeborn of Doriath,” she introduced him. I felt a twinge of sympathy when I saw the listlessness in his dull, blue eyes. 

“Celeborn, Salmë is a calligraphist. And he knows the best spots for fishing. Try to get along,” she said kindly, her eyes holding a measure of concern. It was concern that had been directed at me before when I had been slowly fading. Frowning, I ran my eyes over Celeborn again. The faint line around his neck stood out. I swallowed. Did the long sleeves of Celeborn’s tunic hide more? Carnilótë caught my eyes widening in realisation and she nodded in silent confirmation.

~~~

I kept a close eye on my houseguest, taking care to ensure that he was never left alone. Celeborn brooded on the bow-seat of the west-facing window for the first week. During the second week of his stay, he was usually found throwing fist-sized rocks into the ocean. Once, he _fell_ off the cliffs and Ulmo’s vassals pulled him out. He wept that night. And the next morning, he drank himself into oblivion. I made no attempt to communicate, instead choosing to leave food and water thrice a day on his bedside table. He ate rarely, he vomited often, he threw the food out the window frequently and once he thanked me.

~~~

“What is it that you transcribe?” he asked me one morning when he had wandered into the chamber where I worked.

I stared at him. His face was as desolate as the seashore after a storm. His eyes narrowed in anger when he caught me staring.

“I forgot that I am deemed too insane and suicidal to be given actual answers,” said he haughtily. “I will take my leave now, keeper of mine!”

I hastily caught his wrist. He sniffed in disdain and shook my grip off before striding out. Celeborn of Doriath could have given Macalaurë a run for his money when it came to scowling and expressing displeasure. I gathered the scrolls I had been working on and set out to find him. A long, futile search later, I was at my wit’s end as I hurried back to my house. I had to request Ulmo’s aid to find him. What if the fool had done himself some harm? 

“You should look up sometimes, foolish Noldo,” came the haughty reproof from the branches of the gnarled, old tree beside my house. 

I nearly caught myself smiling at the sulking expression that graced his features. Before he could again go into high dudgeon, I opened my mouth and pointed a finger inside. 

Suffice it to say that it was well worth the momentary pang of past’s sting when the high and mighty Celeborn fell off his seat and ended up at my feet, the cross-eyed look of horror quite ill-fitting on that face. 

I helped him up and watched in amusement as he fastidiously brushed off the soil from the seat of his breeches. We entered the house and I had him sit across me at the small dining table Nerdanel had carved for me. I passed him the first note.

_I am mute._

His eyes held sadness, understanding and a thousand other emotions. But I could not discern pity among them. He took up a quill and scribbled something before passing it to me. I was touched by his gesture. It was the first time that someone had done that. So used was I to my muteness that I often felt an instinctive repulsion when people spoke to me.

 _I see._ He had written. _Well, I am suicidal. So you are better off._

_I was once a suicidal mute._

His hand was hurried when he wrote his reply. _I don’t know what to say, Salmë. Saying wise things was my wife’s forte._

_She is dead then?_

_Yes._ His eyes were haunted as he wrote the next words. _The stupid woman left me behind to rot._

I did not know what to reply to that. He took a deep breath and continued, _You must have known her. Artanis, your people called her._

So this was the man Artanis had given up family and title for. I had not paid attention when Nerdanel mentioned it in passing. I had not known Artanis as a person though I had seen her in courts and in the market. She used to haggle with the fishermen while buying lobsters. Often had a fisherman regretfully told me that I could not buy lobsters because the young Princess had already bought the day’s harvest.

 _She loved lobsters_ , I wrote.

 _I know._ A wan smile quirked Celeborn’s lips. _I wooed her with the finest lobsters expressly brought in from Círdan’s lands. Tell me about her, Salmë._

_I knew her not as well as I knew her cousins._

_Then tell me about them._

So I told him about Irissë and mountain lilies, about Elenwë and marigolds, and about young Itarillë who was the apple of Turkáno’s eye. I told him tales of Míriel and tales of Círdan. I spoke of Fëanáro and Nolofinwë. His eyes widened in shock when I told him the tale of Mairon and Laurefindë.

He picked up his quill and wrote, _Glorfindel has returned, you know._

_I know. But I prefer to think fondly of the Laurefindë I knew and loved, Celeborn. And that man is dead. He died in Ondolindë and Mairon died with him._

And from the ashes of Mairon’s heart had risen Sauron the Abhorred. 

_I can understand,_ wrote Celeborn. _I wanted to die with my wife. I...I feel guilty that I did not die._ He hesitated before continuing, _How did your Ektelë die?_

_I killed him._

The quill fell from his hands and he rose from his chair. Disbelief was etched on his gaunt features. He circumvented the table and came to read over my shoulder as I wrote. After I finished my narration, he cleared his throat once and grasped my forearm in a manner that immediately reminded me of Ektelë. 

_My wife’s nephew was turned into an orc,_ he wrote. _You did the right thing, Salmë._

~~~

Celeborn did not attempt suicide in the weeks that followed. Hesitantly, he opened up and soon we found ourselves engrossed in discussions and debates. 

_I loved hunting in my youth_ , he wrote once. _I quit after I sent Aredhel Ar-Feiniel to her death when she implored sanctuary on meeting me during one of my hunting trips along the borders of Doriath. Her blood is on my hands._

He had his share of sins from the past. I had mine. Our relationship reminded me of Atarinkë and Turkáno after the deaths of Telpë’s mother and Elenwë. No, that was not right. Atarinkë and Turkáno had loved each other with the passion that comes when you know that your days are numbered. We did not share such passion. Celeborn would always love Artanis. My heart had nothing left to give for it had emptied itself after killing Ektelë. There was no grand passion in what I had with Celeborn. But there was understanding. It sufficed.

~~~

_I heard that Maedhros Fëanorion returned to claim his brother. And I hoped that Altáriel would return to claim me, for surely our love transcended what her cousins had,_ he confided as he watched the sunrise wash light over the desolation of what had once been Nienna’s realm. 

I pulled out a scroll that I had transcribed years ago. From memory I had relived the words of the Prince in that piece of parchment.

_“We thank with brief thanksgiving, whatever Gods may be, that no life lives forever; that dead rise up never; that even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea.”_

Celeborn pursed his lips as he read those words. Then his eyes met mine and there was understanding in them. We were two weary rivers, he and I, and we had winded safely into this sea of quiet belonging. The first rays of dawn lent his chalky complexion a tinge of colour and to my eyes, he was painfully beautiful. I did not see in him the man who had been Prince of Doriath or Lord of Lothlórien. I saw him as the shell of a man who had loved and lost, a man who had been so drained by grief that he had nothing left to give the world, a man just like me. So he was beautiful.

His features settled into contemplation as he watched me watch him. Sunlight thawed the bleak land surrounding us and the first bloom of tomorrow niggled its way into my heart. Dragonflies hovered about his white hair and I could not help a smile. His brows drew together in endearing perplexity. I shook my head and blessed the little creatures that seemed to be a living omen of encouragement. 

Gathering my courage, and clinging to the first seed of hope, I lifted my right hand. He grasped it between his palms and drew me to him. Together, we beheld the sunrise.

~~~La fin~~~

* * *

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